


White Blindness

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Psychological Torture, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever they want from him, they seem to think their last experiment worked. He feels Mycroft approach him hesitantly, haltingly. The pauses he makes seem to last eons.</p><p>
  <i>Come here, brother mine.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Blindness

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=103011919#t103011919) prompt on the kink meme. This is the darkest thing i've ever written and _oh boy_ did I enjoy writing it. Concrit very much welcomed and appreciated.

_Light._

_Light._

_Hallucinating? No. Sleep Deprived._

_The white room. Still here. Every night (Night? No longer applies. Not applicable. Not understood. Not. Understood. Sleep period?) will it to have been a hallucination. Hound. H.O.U.N.D._

_Calculate. From level of exhaustion, sleep must have lasted approximately two hours. Hours._

_Days._

_Months._

_How long has it been? No way to tell. Box of light, never dark. Wish I was blind, sometimes. No. Never. Ridiculous. Fanciful._

_Think._

_Think._

_Nothing. Blank as Irene. Smooth glowing walls. Seemed peaceful at first. Light is a torture, burning through eyelids. Serene glowing torture. Passive. Aggressive._

_Stop, fucking stop._

-

He rubs his eyes viciously with the heels of his palms, as if that will stop the light. All it does is make lights spark against his eyelids, but at least there’s texture to them. At least there’s pain, feeling, not this smooth white oppressiveness that smothers everything. 

At first, he’d tried. Tried to cajole. Cajole who? Tried to reason. Who is there to reason with? Nobody. No. There must have been somebody, because he grew more and more frustrated and punched the wall ‘till he bled and found himself slumped on the floor what seemed like minutes but must have been at least seven hours later judging by the state of the dried blood on his knuckles.

Sedatives. No way of knowing where they come from, he’s run his fingers over every smooth white surface of the room. It gives him nothing. Just like Irene. 

_? ? ? ?_

_?_

He’s been measuring the passing of time by the growth of his facial hair. It seems like a victory. A success. Fuck you, whoever you are. Fuck. You.

When he wakes up shaved one morning (Morning? No. Circadian cycle. Perhaps. Perhaps drug induced. He wakes up. He wakes up. He wakes up.), he feels an urge to weep like he hasn’t since he was a child. Irrational. Ridiculous. Fanciful.

He does not cry. 

The first time he sees a person come into the room, his shock is enough to keep him from doing anything. The man wears the uniform of a doctor. Blank, professional. Unreadable. Maddening.

He places a plate of food on the floor (Bread. Unreadable. Cheese. Unreadable. How? How? Water. Unreadable.), and leaves without saying a word.

_Idiot._

_Idiot._

He eats, eyes locked on the door. There is no door. There must be a door. 

He waits. Does not sleep, watches the wall where there was a door and now there is a door. He cannot give up on his senses. He saw a door. There is a door. It exists. He tastes the cheese at the back of his tongue, licks his molars. The plate lies on the floor, licked of crumbs.

He calculates he has been here for a minimum of one week and a maximum of three. Enormous error margin. They have not cut his hair. A victory is a victory. He is careful not to be noticeable when he pulls a curl straight, estimates the length. Develops intentional nervous tics. Obvious. He curls his hair around a finger. Chews it. Pulls his earlobes methodically. Who is watching? 

He watches the door.

He wakes.

He wakes.

He slept, oh how he slept. He curses, rails, kicks the wall. There is a plate of food on the floor (Bread. Unreadable. Cheese. Unreadable. Water. Unreadable. Vitamins. Unreadable.). He eats quickly. Stops watching.

He sleeps.

Dreams.

An embrace, _oh_ , warmth. Understanding, antagonism, irritation, resentment, warmth, acceptance, desire.

He wakes simmering with frustration.

_“Do something!”_

There is nothing. 

The second time he sees a person come into the room, he is ready. He springs, quick and sure. 

He wakes.

He calculates he has been here for a minimum of two weeks and a maximum of six. Time is fluid. White.

He wakes in a different room. Almost sobs with relief. Doesn’t. 

_Ridiculous._

_Fanciful._

_Stockholm Syndrome._

He’s strapped to a bed, feels sluggish. He gradually comes to awareness. The man is standing in front of him. The room has windows, light streams through; he forces himself not to bask, not to inhale in gratitude, not to just revel in knowing the world still exists.

“What do you want? Talk to me! Do something!”

The man moves forward, snaps his thumb as if it were a pencil.

Screams.

He wakes. White. Pain blunt as a hammer.

_Hallucination._

_No. Dream. Evaluate, surroundings are the same. The white room. Where is the door? Who is this? What do they want? Why haven’t they spoken?_

His thumb throbs.

He calculates he has been here for a minimum of four weeks and a maximum of nine. Why has he never done studies on his own rate of hair growth before? Short sighted. Stupid. 

_Idiot._

He dreams again of an embrace. Of a kiss. Inhales familiarity, comfort. Wet tweed and pomade.

He wakes in the room where his thumb was snapped. God, how can it be a relief? He’d break his own leg to stay in here for just a day. Just a few hours. Anywhere but the passive aggressive white. Anywhere. 

The fog clears.

“Sherlock.”

Oh so familiar cadence, smooth, even. He cannot move his head. It doesn’t matter.

_“Mycroft.”_

Mycroft’s tone would be unreadable to anybody else. Sherlock hears surprise. His brother did not know he was here. 

Clarity.

He is a pawn. Not here for his own sake. Held as a bargaining chip.

He laughs. It sounds bizarre.

“How long have you been here, Sherlock?”

He opens his mouth.

He wakes in the white room.

The urge to scream rises, stronger than ever.

_Mycroft._

It is a long time before he is moved again to the windowed room. He calculates he has been here for a minimum of six weeks and a maximum of eighteen. His thumb is stiff and tender.

_Mycroft._

_Is he here?_

_Hope that he is. Hope that he isn’t._

_Oh, my brother._

_Didn’t see him. Possibly a hallucination. The dreams; wet tweed and pomade. Comfort and desire._

_Doubt._

When the day comes, he has become pliant. Lethargic. He lies, still, strapped to the bed once again. The fingers on his left hand are snapped, one by one. He screams.

_“Sherlock.”_

“Mycroft.” Choked out, teeth gritted. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft sounds different. 

They are trying to break him.

He calculates he has been here for a minimum of eight weeks and a maximum of twenty.

His hand throbs. Sharp then dull. It keeps him from sleeping. He wasn’t sleeping much anyway. His hair is long, but not tangled. They must be cleaning him. He can’t believe he hasn’t considered this until now.

_Everything is compromised._

_Mycroft._

The windowed room is a blessing and a curse. There will be pain. Mycroft will be there. Mycroft.

“Mr. Holmes.”

The first voice he’s heard that isn’t himself or Mycroft. It sounds alien. Wrong. Get out, get out. 

_Get out of my head._

“Mr. Holmes, won’t you greet your brother properly?”

Mycroft is there, suddenly. God. God, just looking at him is like sleeping, like waking, like home. Sherlock closes his eyes. Opens them. Drinks it in.

Mycroft looks young. He wears what Sherlock himself is wearing: soft white t-shirt and trousers. He looks naked and young. 

“Step closer, Mr. Holmes. Give your brother a kiss.”

Mycroft approaches him slowly, as one would a skittish horse. His hand cups Sherlock’s face, and he leans in, brushes his dry lips across Sherlock’s cheek. Inhales greedily. Pulls back.

“That wasn’t very friendly, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft stiffens imperceptibly.

Do they know?

They can’t know.

His body relaxes. He steps forward again, brushes the same dry kiss over Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock is almost delirious enough to moan, open his mouth. He doesn’t.

“That’s better, Mr. Holmes. Time to leave now.”

_No, no. Mycroft. Stay. Stay. God, stay._

He says nothing. Cannot move his head as he watches his brother move out of his line of sight. 

He calculates he has been here for a minimum of ten weeks and a maximum of twenty-five. He cannot make a fist with his left hand.

“Do something. Do something. Torture me. Anything.”

An illogical statement. He is already being tortured. He is aware of this.

_Anything but this._

_White, fucking white._

_I’m crazy. Am I crazy?_

Windows.

Mycroft looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin. 

Bizarre, to see his brother like this. So unlike him.

“So unlike him,” he whispers.

“Greet your brother, Mr Holmes.”

A kiss. He forces himself not to arch up into it. Warmth, comfort, home, desire.

“Touch him, Mr. Holmes.”

He feels Mycroft hesitate. They’ll know. They’ll know.

“If you do not comply with our instructions, we will sever his left hand.”

_Unacceptable._

Mycroft’s hand on his hip. He slows his breathing, watches his brother carefully.

Mycroft’s eyes widen in warning, _they mustn’t know_.

They mustn’t know. They do not know. If they knew, they wouldn’t be doing this. 

_How can desire such as this be tempered. Kiss me. Touch me. Fuck me._

Mycroft’s hand on his hip. Breathe slow. Breathe slow. 

“Bring your brother to orgasm, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft stills. Turns his head. He must hesitate.

“His hand, Mr Holmes. He does not require it to survive, does he?”

A rhetorical question. Mycroft does not answer, just pulls Sherlock’s white cotton trousers off with ruthless efficiency. 

Sherlock gasps.

_Comfort._

_Fear._

_Desire._

_Madness._

_Love._

_Desperation._

Familiar fingers curling around him, coaxing. He tenses, closes his eyes.

“Open your eyes, Mr. Holmes.”

He watches Mycroft.

Oh, familiar touch. Tainted. Beautiful. He allows himself a short, noisy exhale. Mycroft gazes at him, eyes penetrating. He sees what they do not.

His brother is skilled, efficient. _Loved._ It takes some strength of will for him not to come too quickly. Too quickly and they will know. But God, his hands.

_Mycroft, you smell like sex._

Mycroft has ruthless self-control in all but one arena. They cannot know.

He comes shaking. They cannot know.

He wakes. 

He’s strapped to the bed in the windowed room. Has he been here since the last time? No way to tell, movement is impossible. He surveys the sunlight in the room, tries to estimate the time of year, the time of day.

_How long has it been?_

His mind fogs.

Mycroft’s soft tread on the carpeted floor. 

Whatever they want from him, they seem to think their last experiment worked. He feels Mycroft approach him hesitantly, haltingly. The pauses he makes seem to last eons.

_Come here, brother mine._

He takes too long, draws out the act too much. Footsteps, then sharp bright pain. Sherlock doesn’t scream. He looks down towards the elbow on his right arm as if it doesn’t belong to him. The skin blooms open like a flower, split to the bone white stigma. He sees the pinkish thread of a nerve. Mycroft doesn’t make a sound. 

“Will you do what we asked of you, Mr. Holmes? We do not like being disappointed.”

“I will.”

His head is strapped back onto the bed so he can no longer study the thick flow of blood dribbling sluggishly onto the sheets from his elbow. He feels his legs being spread and strapped. He does not resist. 

Mycroft looms over him, eyes soft. Sherlock smiles. 

This shouldn’t be a comfort. It shouldn’t be something he craves. After unknowable weeks of blank whiteness it is a revelation. Sweet relief. Smooth fingers brush his skin, gently searching, pressing, sliding. It is achingly good. 

The sharp blinding pain in his arms helps.

_Yes, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me._

Mycroft is quick and efficient in a way he never usually is, but in the unobservable space between them the angle is precise, a beautiful acute that slides and blurs the icy pounding of his arm, the dull ache of his hand. It’s a caress, an embrace; Sherlock stops himself arching into it. Stops himself from squirming and mewling like a cat, but oh, how he wants to. This could keep him from flying apart. Oh, they’ve got it so wrong, they’re so wrong. He wants to laugh. Doesn’t. He wants to pull Mycroft further and further inside, wants to spread his legs further, open himself further, pull his brother down and devour him. Doesn’t.

He doesn’t stop himself from sobbing slightly as Mycroft pulls out, knows well enough that it will be misinterpreted. Mycroft’s eyes are penetrating, blown black. He doesn’t kiss Sherlock.

_Don’t stop. Don’t leave. Touch me._

“Time for a chat, Mr. Holmes.”

_Don’t leave me._

He wakes. 

His arm throbs abominably; he can feel crusted blood pulling at the fine hairs on the crook of his elbow. He flexes the muscle experimentally, bites his lip hard enough to break the skin as he struggles not to shriek. He gasps. Deep tissue damage.

He calculates he has been here for a minimum of fourteen weeks and a maximum of thirty.

His vision blurs. He sleeps. He dreams.

_Mycroft._

_Mycroft’s hands, his mouth._

_Brother._

“Sherlock.”

He’s spread open on the bed again, face down and tingling with fear and anticipation. Have they misread the two of them so badly? Yes. Mycroft’s doing. A familiar warmth on his back, the familiar struggle not to purr and sigh into the touch. Mycroft’s hands tremble as they grip his hips. Intentional. Noticeable. 

“Do not dither, Mr. Holmes. Your brother’s face is woefully unmarked thus far.”

Mycroft comes inside him again. Beautifully. 

“Come along, Mr. Holmes.”

-

He wakes to an unfamiliar sound. He is in the white room, and there is an unfamiliar sound.

He sits up abruptly, ignoring the feel of the skin splitting afresh on his arm, and listens.

Muffled voices. Shouting. Banging. Gunshots.

He bangs on the wall of the white room with his foot.

“Here! In Here!”

He cannot hit the wall with either hand without his vision whiting from pain; he continues to kick. The door opens.

\- 

“Jesus Christ. Get a doctor down here! It’s alright mate, you’re alright.”

“Mycroft.”

“What are you saying, mate? That someone’s name? Hang on, the medical team is coming for you. That’s a nasty cut you’ve got. Don’t try to move your hands.”

“Sir, that’s the given name of our target.”

“Do you know where he is? Where is he being kept?”

“There was a room with windows. He wasn’t kept there. Near there, possibly. Find him.”

His observational skills have been compromised to an unprecedented degree.

“Careful mate, we’ll find him. We found you, didn’t we? Calm down alright, or I’ll have to give you something.”

“No, no. Don’t. Let me be awake. Don’t make me sleep.”

“Alright, no sleeping. Just keep still while we take a look at you. You’re lucky this isn’t infected.”

Bright wave of pain in his arm, he breathes deeply through his nose. Fresh air. God. He finally takes in his surroundings. He’s in London. Which borough? Acton. About forty five minutes on the tube from Baker Street. He’s laughing hysterically. 

“Alright mate, let it out. Keep as still as you can though, yeah?”

“How long?”

“What was that mate?”

“How long was I in there?”

“Dunno mate, call has been out about the target for three weeks. It’s been about two weeks since your fingers were broken though. Don’t try and move them.”

Three weeks. Three weeks.

_A minimum of fourteen weeks and a maximum of thirty._

He inhales, gulping down lungfuls of gritty London air. Only three weeks. Did Mycroft know? He must have known. Mycroft isn’t as weak as this, didn’t go mad kept in a little white box. Didn’t crumble.

_Mycroft._

There he is, brought out into the early morning sunshine in a white t-shirt smeared with blood, and white cotton trousers. Bare footed on the gravel, he runs. He runs. 

“Am I insane, Mycroft?”

“No, Brother mine. Remember, catch-22.”

“Ah.”

They draw blood. Look in his eyes. Take his heartbeat. Stitch his arm. Set his fingers. Inject him with various substances.

“You might experience mild withdrawal from the sedatives. It looks like you were kept under most of the time.”

_A minimum of fourteen weeks and a maximum of thirty._

Three weeks.

He wakes. 

Blissful darkness. He opens his eyes and gazes at the intricate shadows cast by the decorative plastering on Mycroft’s ceiling. His mind feels sluggish, like it’s awakening after sleeping for too long.

He turns, pressing his nose into the short fine hairs at the base of Mycroft’s neck, careful of his arm and his fingers. He knows Mycroft is awake.

“Will you tell me?”

“No. I cannot.”

Mycroft turns to face him; their noses brush. He breathes the familiar scent in greedily.

“Will you stay here in the dark with me?”

“Yes.”

“I want to devour you.”

_“Yes.”_


End file.
